Page 18 of Tempting Kat (Lust & Luxury #2)

Conrad

T wo fucking weeks of nothing but text messages and I'm practically feral with need.

Last Friday I had to bail on coming here because Matteo needed me but I’m back and waiting.

She denied my booking requests, and I’m one fucking smart-mouth remark from throwing her over my fucking shoulder and taking Matteo up on his offer of the cabin.

I've been calling, texting, and trying to see her again. She responds to my texts with that bratty attitude I both love and want to spank out of her, but she barely answers my calls. When she does, it's brief, dismissive, like she's doing me a fucking favor.

“Here comes trouble,” Santiago mutters, his eyes flicking to the door.

My head snaps up, and there she fucking is. My breath catches in my throat.

Katarina saunters in like she owns the place, and Christ, she might as well.

Her dark hair is half up in these ridiculous space buns that should look childish but somehow make me want to grab them like handles.

The rest of her hair cascades down around her shoulders, framing that face that haunts my dreams.

She's wearing jean shorts so short they barely qualify as clothing, showing off those thick thighs that I can still feel trembling around my head.

Black sneakers on her feet and even they look fucking cute.

And a crop top—a scrap of black fabric that shows her midriff and rides up when she stretches to grab something from a high shelf.

The fucking shirt is going to be the death of me as I read the words that are stretched across her chest.

I Might Be A Handful But So Is This Ass

She hasn’t looked my way. I know she can feel me here. Instead, she ignores me, laughing at something Santiago just said as she starts setting up the bar. Right now, I want to kill my bar manager for having that laugh directed at him and not me.

My little brat. My grip tightens around my glass so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter.

“And then—” Katarina slams her hand on the bar, leaning closer to Santiago, “—the fucking elevator broke AGAIN. Like, it's been out for basically a year at this point, and we just got it back working this week. The landlord's a complete slumlord asshole.”

“That's rough,” Santiago says, wiping down the counter. “Didn't you live on the fourth floor?”

“Yeah,” she groans, running her hands through her hair. “Four flights of stairs every fucking day. But that's not even the worst part.”

I lean forward slightly, not wanting to miss a word.

“The pipe in my bathroom wall burst this morning,” she continues, gesturing wildly. “Flooded half my apartment before the super could shut it off. And now there's no water in the whole building.”

Santiago winces. “Shit, that's bad.”

“Tell me about it,” Kat says, grabbing bottles to stock the shelves. “I had to go to that nasty-ass gym on twenty-third just to shower before coming here. Pretty sure I caught something just standing in those showers.” She shudders dramatically. “I swear I saw something growing in the corner.”

My jaw clenches so hard my teeth might actually crack. I need to do something, anything.

Before I can even think about what I’m doing, I’m texting my lawyer, David.

I need you to find out who owns the apartment building on Sycamore. Buy it. Immediately. Whatever it costs. Fire the current management, I’ll put someone else in there.

Unusual request but consider it done. Will start the process and have news for you sometime next week.

Not good enough. I want the paperwork by tomorrow.

That’s ambitious. I’ll see what I can do.

Don’t see. Do.

Kat is still chattering away to Santiago, completely oblivious to what I've just set in motion. “So anyway, the super says it'll be at least three days before the water's back on. Three fucking days! What am I supposed to do, not shower? Not flush my toilet? It's barbaric.”

“You know,” Santiago says, wiping his hands on a bar towel, “you could always crash at our place. Mariana wouldn't mind. We've got that pullout sofa in the office.”

“Santiago,” I interrupt, my voice cutting through their conversation. Both of them turn to look at me, Santiago with a knowing smirk, Katarina just rolling her fucking eyes.

“Boss,” Santiago nods, that smirk still playing on his lips. Fucker knows exactly what he's doing.

Katarina crosses her arms over her chest, pushing her tits up in a way that makes my mouth water. “Can I help you with something? Or are you just interrupting for the fun of it?”

I step closer to the bar, placing my palms flat on the surface. “You can stay at the Lovelace.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?”

“I keep a suite there,” I continue, holding her gaze. “You can use it for however long you need.”

She snorts, actually fucking snorts at me. “Yeah, no thanks. I'd rather sleep in my flooded apartment.”

“Don't be stupid, Katarina. It's a luxury hotel with room service, a spa, and working fucking plumbing.”

Her eyes narrow suspiciously. “What's the catch?”

“No catch.” I straighten up, adjusting my cuffs. “Consider it a…company benefit.”

“A company benefit,” she repeats flatly. “For your favorite bartender?”

I smirk. “Are you my favorite?”

She rolls her eyes, but I can see the slight upturn at the corner of her mouth. “I'm everyone's favorite.”

“Humble, too.”

“Look,” she says, leaning across the bar, “I appreciate the offer, but I don't need your charity.”

“It's not charity,” I say, my voice hardening. “It's practicality. I need you functioning, not exhausted from hiking up four flights of stairs to an apartment with no running water.”

She studies me for a long moment, and I can see her weighing her options. Pride versus comfort. Stubborn independence versus basic fucking hygiene.

“Fine,” she finally says, throwing her hands up in defeat. “Whatever. I'll stay at your fancy hotel if it'll shut you up.”

“Good girl,” I say, just low enough for her to hear.

She walks away, her perfect ass swaying as she moves to the other end of the bar where a couple is waving to get her attention.

I watch her lean over the bar, all smiles for these strangers when she gives me nothing but attitude. The guy's eyes drop to her cleavage for a fraction of a second too long, and I have to grip my glass harder to keep from launching myself or it across the room.

“Another drink?” Santiago appears at my elbow, that knowing smirk still plastered on his face.

“Double,” I growl, not taking my eyes off Katarina.

She's laughing at something the couple said, her head thrown back, exposing the smooth column of her throat. I imagine wrapping my hand around it, feeling her pulse race under my palm as I fuck her into oblivion.

For the rest of the night, I sit in my corner and watch her work.

She knows I'm watching. I can tell by the little smirks she throws my way when she thinks I'm not looking, the deliberate way she bends over to grab bottles from the lower shelves, ass in the air like an offering.

My little tease knows exactly what she's doing.

Every so often she'll glance over at me, catch my eye for a brief second before deliberately turning away. Each time it happens, my cock gets harder. By hour three, I'm in physical pain, straining against my zipper like a fucking teenager.

When closing time finally rolls around, I've had enough of this game. I grab a napkin, draw a small peach on it, and write down the suite number. I slide the napkin and the keycard across the bar when Katarina's back is turned.

Without another word, I stand up and walk out. Let her come to me this time. I've done enough chasing.

Outside, the night air is cool against my flushed skin. I loosen my tie, taking deep breaths to calm the fire raging through my veins.

“Mr. Gallo,” Henry says, opening the car door as I approach. “Back to the penthouse?”

“No,” I say, sliding into the backseat. “The Lovelace.”

“Very good, sir.”